Hyacinth and Cocoa Butter
by Disfordarnit
Summary: "An actress, you said? Here to research a role? In a moving picture?" Ichabod Crane receives a visitor in the Archives. This fanfic ignores all the soul transferring mumbo jumbo the writers tried to foist on us. I'm also ignoring all the Washington DC supernatural cabal BS. Sorta kinda AU?
The books no longer held any comfort for him, Ichabod Crane decided. Still, after all the effort of saving the Archives, and having been hired by the Historical Society to preserve and care for it, Ichabod had no choice but to carry his physical self to the old building every morning.

Even though this was one of the two places he could feel her presence the most, the other being their shared home.

He forced himself to walk to the Archives at dawn, unlock the heavy doors and catalogue the books. It was good to be tucked away from all the bustle of modernity.

Before, he delighted in every new discovery because Abbie was always there to teach him and guide him. Now that he has lost his anchor, Ichabod did not feel like making any more effort to understand the modern world.

They offered no comfort, but at least he gained some quiet here amongst these tomes that tell the tales of people from his time.

He would get a few visitors every now and then, strangers curious either about the building itself or its contents.

He welcomed the distraction and would try his best to edify them with as much minutiae as possible. Inevitably, they would smile, thanked him and walked away.

He would be left alone, yet again, with the books and the maps and the charts and of course, the memories. Jenny would sometimes come by and bring him donut holes. He would eat all of them but one.

When the door opened he smelled her before she even stepped foot into the room. Hyacinth. Cocoa butter. He looked up and saw her tiny blue flats first. Dainty feet connected to slim legs underneath a yellow sundress dotted with blue flowers. Curly hair knotted into a messy bun. A pointed chin, turned towards him, a closed smirk obscured by her arm bringing down her round sunglasses from her face.

"Mr. Crane?" she inquired and Ichabod's knees almost buckled.

 _Oh God. Is this a demon come to tempt me to sell my soul? It picked the perfect apparition._ He held his breath.

"I'm Nicole. The lady at the library told me you are the best person to help me?"

She stepped closer to where he was behind the table, extending an arm. Ichabod thought of the time he held hands with Abbie before they entered the Catacombs. He was too stunned to reach out and shake the offered hand.

"I'm really sorry to come in without an appointment. I'm an actor. I'm researching for a role in this movie I was just offered. I'd like to find out more about the ladies who lived here in Sleepy Hollow during the 1800s?"

Ichabod just stared, at a loss to say anything to this woman who looked like Abbie, talked like Abbie, moved like Abbie. Is he hallucinating? Did Jenny inject some kind of drug into those donut holes?

"Mr. Crane?" The lady smiled sweetly at him, trying to suppress a giggle, which was the exact same thing Abbie did when Crane had powdered sugar on his mustache that morning before their trip to the Catacombs.

"Uh, forgive me. I do apologize. I, uh, I'm not…"

"It's ok. I get that a lot. People recognize me from something I've done and they're trying to work out where they've seen me before. It happens."

"N-no. You look. Forgive me, your name…"

"Nicole."

"An actress, you said? Here to research for a role? In a moving picture?"

"Yes." She wrinkled her eyebrows at the quaint way Crane referred to a movie, but did not comment. "Oh. I love your coat. So military like! So Revolutionary War! J-Crew?" She touched his lapels, rubbing her fingers on it to feel the coarseness of the material.

"Uhh, no." He stepped back from her hand, an unpleasant memory coming in unbidden. "It is a handstitched garment, lovingly created by a friend who is now…no longer with us."

"I'm sorry. I did not mean to bring back bad memories."

 _Then you should not have walked in here!_ Ichabod shut his eyes tight for a split second, steeling for control.

"Miss Nicole. How may I assist you?" He assumed a military stance, nervous hands clasped behind his back, eyes trying not to focus too much on her face.

She told him all about the role she was taking on and asked for books on the life of any women living in Sleepy Hollow in the 1800s. As she talked, Ichabod took her in. She has Abbie's face but Ichabod knew then she was not really Abbie, not his Abbie. She was lighter, sunnier. There was a playful twinkle in her eye that Abbie lacked. She talked with her hands, gesturing widely. Every sentence ended with a smile. She always seemed on the verge of laughing, like she was waiting for you to finish a joke, to get to the punchline. While Abbie talked in clips, succinct and to the point, this woman drew out her words, offering more information than was necessary. When she was searching for a right word to say, she would tilt her chin to her chest and a curly strand of hair would fall on her right cheekbone.

Ichabod could tell that this woman had love in her life, she probably has friends who take her out for drinks and dancing, a mother she talks to every night. This woman has no idea monsters are real, let alone battled one.

"Right." Ichabod straightened his back so fast, he almost clicked his heels together as he would often do while marching with his fellow soldiers.

"I may have some books that would help you in your endeavors, Miss Nicole. If you would be so kind as to take a seat, right here," he half-bowed as he gestured to a chair, "I will search for them and deliver them to you presently. I will be but a moment."

Ichabod saw the furrowed eyebrows again, the small smirk, the suppressed giggle. He knew she was probably silently curious about the flourish of chivalry he was exhibiting at the moment. He tried to concentrate on the locations of the books.

"Ohh, thank you so much, Mr. Crane!" she exclaimed as he laid down several leatherbound books on the table in front of her.

"This will be so helpful for me and my preparations. I'm probably not going to be playing anybody close to these ladies, but I think it will at least get me close their frame of mind, to how they were thinking. Or maybe even some imagery of their mannerisms and way of holding themselves, you know?"

There goes the hands, flipping and waving in the air. Ichabod wanted to catch them and hold them to his face.

"Am I supposed to read them here? Am I allowed to take them out? Am I even," she gasped and clasped her hands to her chest, whispering "Am I allowed to touch them with my bare hands?" Scrunching up her nose and lips, she wriggled her fingers in Crane's direction before folding them in her chest again.

Ichabod could feel the amused smile tipping the corners of his mouth. _Oh. I had quite forgotten that I could still do that._

He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head. "Yes, Miss Nicole. You may touch them with your bare hands. These are reproductions. However, you do have to peruse them in this room. I'm afraid the Archives do not quite operate as a library would and the books will have to remain here."

She waved her slender hands at him once more. "I understand, I understand. Of course. I can stay here as long as I like, though?"

 _Stay. Here. Forever. I should have told her._

"Yes. Yes, indeed. As long as you like." Giving her a quick bow, Crane turned to go back to his seat.

"Peruse them, I shall, Mr. Crane. Thank you," she called out to his retreating back.

A few minutes later, her phone rang but before she answered it, she sheepishly asked "Am I allowed to answer it here? Do you need me to take it outside?"

 _No, do not leave._

"As I said, Miss Nicole, the Archives is not a library. You may freely converse with whoever it is on the other line."

"Thanks, just checking. I don't want to bother you. Hi, honey!"

Crane tried hard not to eavesdrop but it was impossible since it was just the two of them in the room. He could surmise that the person she was speaking to was somebody she was really affectionate with, judging from the pet names she was using. The caller was making her giggle, making her bite her thumb and tapping her crossed leg in the air, as if she was listening to a really joyful music.

It occurred to Crane at that moment that this was a side he had never seen in Abbie. She was instantly burdened the second they met, saddled with teaching him everything about how this new world operated. The responsibilities of being a Witness, a police officer, a guardian to Jenny. Abbie did not get a chance to be joyful, to be loved and adored as this woman clearly is. Crane felt the regret creeping into him like a dark shadow. It was too late for him to bring any semblance of joy into Abbie. He dearly wished he had made her laugh like this person was making Miss Nicole laugh at this very moment.

For the next several hours, they sat in the room a few feet apart from each other. Crane would try his best to concentrate on his work and stop the urge to turn around and just drink in the sight of Abbie's doppelganger.

She would read several pages, softly murmuring to herself, the occasional "Interesting," or "Lovely, lovely" would escape from her lips. One time, she hummed a tune and days later, after consulting an app called Shazam on Jenny's phone, Crane discovered that it was 'Be My Lover' by a group called La Bouche. She answered a few more phone calls and Crane would just sit and bask in the melodic lilt of her voice.

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine that it was really Abbie in the room with him.

"What are you working on?"

The voice being so close and the heat from her proximity startled him. He cleared his throat and tried to get his bearings.

"I'm just completing the catalogues of all the books in here."

"Mmmm." She didn't really seem all that interested and looked around his table. "Donut holes! I love them too. You're not going to eat that last one? Can I have it?"

"I was saving that. For someone."

"Oh I'm sorry. Will he be coming back soon?" she turned her head to glance at the door.

"She." he corrected. "Will not." She looked confused so Crane felt obliged to explain.

"I used to work here with someone. She would bring me these miraculous confectionaries every morning. But I would eat them all and she would be very angry at me for not leaving any for her. So I always made a point to leave some. So she would not be angry anymore. And now," he shrugged, "force of habit, I suppose."

"Homegirl brings you a treat, you eat them all and leave her just one? Very considerate of you, Mr. Crane."

Crane smiled at the tease. "No, of course I did not leave just one. We shared them equally when she was," Crane could not say 'was alive,' "When she was here. But now that she's not, this is, this is…"

"Symbolic?"

Crane nodded quietly.

"I get it."

Crane was not convinced that she did, but she was searching his face for some understanding and that allowed him to openly stare back at her and imagine Abbie standing inches from him.

A mischievous grin spread across her face. "Can I still have it, though? Since she's not here to eat it? And you're not going to?"

Another smile. "Please, Miss Nicole. Be my guest."

Delighted, she popped it in her mouth and closed her eyes to savor it. This is how Abbie looked when he made her an espresso that morning before the Catacombs. It turned out to be their last morning together.

"Thank you! That was delicious. I can see why you would eat all of them. I would not be able to stop!"

She smiled her sunny smile and squeezed his arm.

"I'm almost done and I will be out of your hair in maybe half an hour. I just need to jot some things down. Do you have a pen? I brought a notebook with me but I searched through my bag and couldn't find a pen. Everything's digital nowadays, who needs a pen anymore, right? Oh goodness. A fountain pen? With an inkwell. Super old-school, huh? Oh thank you, yes, a ball point will work better for me. I might spill ink all over those old books. And you wouldn't want that, would you?"

He loved listening to her prattle on and would have been happy if she just stood there for the next half an hour and told him her life story. To prolong her presence near him, he made her write down her full name and address, citing a need to keep records of visitors who consulted the books in the Archives.

"You're not just trying to get my details to stalk me, are you?" she joked, her doe-eyes blinking up at him flirtatiously.

"Oh no, Miss Nicole. You may simply write down the name of the city you reside in, if you do not wish to give me your full address. I assure you, I will protect your privacy."

She smiled and bent her head down to write. Crane was only a little bit disappointed to see that her loopy penmanship bore no resemblance to Abbie's.

* * *

He's definitely a military man, she thought. Back stiff as a board, rigid posture. Like he was standing attention in front of a General or something.

Doesn't like to be touched.

Usually she can tell if the other person knows her, has seen her work. The fans are obvious, of course, but she learnt enough about body language to recognize someone who's holding back on the excitement of meeting someone famous.

This one's different though.

When she stepped into the room earlier that morning, she stopped herself from laughing at the way his mouth almost dropped and how his body visibly swayed at her sight. He had to catch his fingers at the edge of the table to stop from falling.

She was used to getting a reaction from men in that way, but certainly nothing that extreme.

When she spoke his name he audibly sucked in a long breath it made her feel like that time when she was seven and had said "Fuck" in front of her grandmother.

She detected a glimmer of recognition in his eyes, but it wasn't the usual "Hey, aren't you on TV" kind of recognition. This felt personal, like she was a high-school crush he hadn't seen in ten years.

He looked at her as if she had the soul of his lover from a past life trapped in the wrong body.

But his demeanor made her feel unwelcome, as if she was intruding on a private moment between him and his stacks of books.

He recoiled from her touch when she asked about his beautiful coat.

He was sending mixed signals it confused her and made her self-conscious so she kept filling in the silence with more details than she knew he needed.

Yet again, he was so gentlemanly when he offered her a seat, and so helpful with the books she needed, she thought maybe he didn't hate her after all.

It frustrated her that she couldn't get a read on him, something that, as an actor, she prided herself on doing.

While going through the books she would glance at his resolute back and wondered if she was indeed intruding on something important. He looked so lonely to her, with his single donut hole on a napkin next to him.

He looked like he needed a friend so she walked up to him. When she spoke, she did not realize he was meditating, and was too embarrassed to apologize for probably the hundredth time that day.

She tried to do something fun with the donut hole, maybe coax out a funny story about why he left a single ball all by itself on a napkin. She wanted to kick herself when he said he was saving it for someone, and again when he told her it was for someone who was not coming back.

She tried her best to tease a smile out of him and was so proud of herself when he finally did. He had a beautiful smile.

When she was done jotting down notes on possible characteristics she could adopt for her character, she went back to his table to return his pen. She thanked him and told him she would be leaving now.

His shoulders drooped a little and he let out a long sigh. He looked like a dejected puppy, but the sigh made her think he was so relieved to finally be rid of her.

This man is confounding!

She gathered the books and gently placed them back in the safety of his arm, thinking maybe he's just being protective of the Archives and was worried the books would be damaged somehow.

Slinging her bag on her shoulder and repeating her thanks she walked towards the door. He bowed his head and stood with his hands clasped behind his back looking like a stern schoolmaster from days of yore.

She turned to take a last look at him. He looked so sad and lonely, his eyes seemed to be silently pleading her not to go.

She did not exactly know why she did what she did next.

All she heard in her head was her mother telling her "If it's in your power to help someone in need, then that's what you should do."

Ichabod Crane looked like he was in need. He needed a friend.

So she walked back to him, opened her arms wide and hugged him tight.

She expected him to reject her hug, seeing as how he did not even want to shake her hand, but he did the exact opposite. He positively melted into her arms.

So, she did not mind it one bit when he caressed the back of her head or when the hug seemed to go on a bit longer for it to be deemed socially acceptable.

* * *

The slender fingers returned into his field of vision when she returned the ball point pen. Crane immediately stood up and out of his seat, knowing that it was a signal of her impending departure.

He did not want her to go.

Even though he knew she was not really his Abbie.

She had Abbie's physical attributes, Abbie's voice, Abbie's kind eyes but Crane knew she was a completely different person, with a different history and different experiences.

Her essence was not Abbie.

Meeting this woman was just like another dream, a second vision of Abbie saying goodbye. Crane wasn't sure if he had the strength to go through that all over again.

"Thank you so much for all your help, Mr. Crane. You have no idea how much you helped me."

She was gathering her things. She really is leaving.

"If you're ever in Atlanta in June, try to find me, ok? We can arrange for you to visit the set."

So many nights Crane had berated himself for failing to tell Abbie everything that was in his heart, so many nights he had repeated the words he should have confessed. Now, here is a version of Abbie getting ready to leave and stupid him is unable to declare the words yet again.

 _Of course I can't say it. This young lady is not Abbie. She would think I'm a fool for confessing a deep love for someone he just met a mere three hours ago! It would be foolish, it would be moot. Because she is not Abbie!_

He reminded himself to take deep cleansing breaths so that he could somehow endure this warped second goodbye.

Before he knew it, she was already heading for the door.

Crane thought back to what was racing through his mind when Abbie said goodbye in his vision.

She looked so tired, like she was more than ready to give up.

He thought a deep bow would let her know how thankful he was for all that she did for him, how much he respected her sacrifice. As he bent his head, he knew a bow alone would not have been enough. He raised his head, thinking he had time to gather her in his arms and feel her tiny body against his ribs once more.

But Abbie was already gone.

As he watched the young actress leave the Archives, Ichabod thought of what he would give to correct that mistake he made. Nevertheless, coward that he is, he made no move and stood firm as an oak tree, his tell-tale hands hidden behind his back.

And then she turned.

And it was not Miss Nicole who walked back to him with a steely determination playing across her face.

It was Abbie.

Abbie was coming for him. It's Abbie's beaming smile directed at him. Abbie's concerned eyes boring into him.

Abbie's slender arms opening wide to receive him.

He held back a sob as she stepped into his circle and buried her face in the crook of his shoulder.

He pressed his cheek against her soft curls, closed his eyes and breathed in her scent.

He cradled her head to his chest, not daring to say a single word lest it betrayed his breaking heart.

He knew this was selfish of him.

Abbie left not knowing he loved her, and now this kind woman, for whatever reason, is letting him know that he is loved.

It was selfish to want this closure but this was what he never knew he needed.

He held on to her for a minute longer before finally letting go, his cracking voice whispering a shaky "Thank you."

She looked up at him, arms still encircling his waist.

She searched his eyes for a long time and then stepped away, holding onto his left hand.

"God be with you, Mr. Crane."

And then she left.

When the door closed with a gentle click, Ichabod Crane dropped to his knees and allowed himself to weep.


End file.
